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From "The Disaster of Japanese Literature"
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"Recently, I heard something from a friend—apparently, a rising star in the literary world has achieved a first print run of one million copies with his second novel.
To put that in perspective, my own best-selling work barely reached six hundred thousand in total sales.
So upon hearing this news, I was stunned, overwhelmed, and honestly, a little humbled.
I couldn't help but think—perhaps I truly lack talent in this field.
Still, I've always considered myself a good learner, if not a genius.
So I immediately asked my friend for the author's name, hoping to get an early look at his work.
Imagine my surprise when the name I heard was Hojou Kyousuke.
I racked my brain and couldn't recall anyone by that name.
Everyone knows the literary world is both open and tightly connected; when a promising young talent appears, word spreads quickly—like discovering buried treasure.
After all, if we want to revive Japan's declining literary scene, we must rely on new blood.
My colleagues and I are always happy to help young writers.
For example, when Shoji Arakawa was starting out, I invited him to write for my column—and we all know the masterpieces he went on to produce.
But this Hojou fellow? I couldn't find the faintest trace of him in my memory. Truly puzzling…"
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At that, Hikigaya Hachiman couldn't help but roll his eyes so hard they nearly rattled in his skull.
"Ahhh, onii-chan! Your dead-fish eyes are even deader! You've officially achieved true dead-fish form!" Komachi gasped.
Fueled by his sister's "praise," Hachiman rolled his eyes even harder until they actually hurt, then returned to his default bored expression.
He glanced proudly at his sister.
"How's that?"
"Wow, amazing! I don't really get why rolling your eyes is something to brag about, but Komachi gives big points for effort and brotherly affection!"
"So cool! I have no idea what's so great about rolling your eyes, but your love for Komachi just earned you major points!"
As Komachi clapped excitedly, Hachiman's grin widened.
Then he looked back down at the paper.
This old geezer… if he really didn't know who Hojou Kyousuke was, I'd twist my own neck off and throw it at him like a Pokéball!
'Hojou's "The Devotion of Suspect X" sold like crazy and even won the Bookstore Award!'
'Maybe regular folks wouldn't know, but you—a so-called "literary insider"? Give me a break.'
He's obviously throwing shade at Hojou on purpose.
Hachiman forced himself to keep reading, knowing the real venom was still to come—after all, that sensational headline hadn't even been justified yet.
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"…But the world is full of hidden geniuses, so I decided to find out for myself. I asked my friend what this Hojou's new work was, and he simply said, 'Go to a bookstore—you'll understand.'
So I went to one I frequent, and sure enough, I understood the moment I arrived.
There were not one, not two, but three full posters of the same title plastered outside: 'The Dream and Death of Writer K.'
I was stunned. I've only seen this kind of spectacle in Kabukichō—where hosts plaster their faces everywhere to attract customers—but for a novel's promotion?
This was a first for me.
When I stepped inside, intending to ask the owner about it, I was struck speechless again.
Forgive my repeated astonishment, but Hojou's book was that popular—the counter was swarming with customers.
A quick glance told me they were all there to preorder this novel.
Even when famous authors from past generations released new works, I doubt they ever saw such madness.
I thought I'd wait for the line to shrink, but after standing there until my legs went numb, the crowd just kept growing…"
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"Pfft—ahahahahaha!"
Hachiman couldn't hold it anymore.
Sure, every word from the old man was dripping with passive-aggressive shade, but the whole thing was so over the top it was hilarious.
He quickly whipped out his phone, snapped a picture of the article, and sent it to the "Rampaging Angels" group chat—so everyone could enjoy the show.
Meanwhile, Komachi—now wearing a yellow apron in the kitchen—glanced back at her brother, noticed his energized grin, and smiled softly.
Humming a cheerful tune, she lit the stove and began prepping dinner for the two of them.
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"…Driven by curiosity, I asked the store owner for a brief chat. Why was this novel so popular?
The owner pointed at the standee by the register, then at the posters on the window.
'Look at those beautiful posters,' he said. 'Wouldn't you be curious? Many customers walk in after seeing them and place preorders immediately.'
It was astonishing—almost absurd to me. Could mere posters really attract buyers? To an old-fashioned writer like me, that sounded impossible.
Before I could ask more, a high school girl in uniform—she must've come straight after class—joined our conversation. Her answer explained everything:
'If the poster's made with such care, how could the novel itself be bad? You can feel Hojou-sensei's passion just from the artwork!'
To think someone could judge a novel by its poster… I'd never heard anything so bizarre in my entire career.
But curiosity got the better of me, and I kept talking to her—and soon, my entire worldview was turned upside down.
Apparently, this Hojou-sensei not only creates stunning promotional art, he also draws short manga to go with his novels.
I know some stories get manga adaptations, but to draw one for marketing? That's unheard of.
The girl then explained that Hojou-sensei actually started as a manga artist—one quite famous in that field—and has now brought entertainment-style promotion into the literary world."
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Hachiman exhaled sharply.
'Here it comes.'
The old man's true intention—his "hidden knife"—was about to show.
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"…At first, I wanted to read Hojou-sensei's work myself—to learn from it, to see what made it so loved.
But now, I've lost that motivation entirely.
After all, I could never stoop to relying on flashy posters and promotional manga to attract readers.
When I first stepped into the world of literature, my mentor told me:
'Writing may be a personal pursuit, but once a story is born, it belongs to the world. Treat it with respect.'
The message a story conveys is what matters most. And if I can't become that kind of writer, then at the very least, I should be one who can simply tell a good story."
A real writer should move people through the core ideas in their work—use genuine emotion and captivating storytelling to connect with readers. That's what truly matters.
But today! I must sincerely thank Hojou-san for opening my eyes to another path—one that proves you don't need profound ideas or great stories for a book to become a best-seller.
All you need is a team of well-paid illustrators to draw a few eye-catching posters, maybe hire a manga artist for a short comic tie-in, and voilà!
A million-copy blockbuster is born!
To be honest, the moment this thought crossed my mind, I broke into a cold sweat.
I'm not exaggerating—ask the bookstore manager who was standing right next to me.
He even asked if I was feeling unwell.
I told him, "No, I'm fine... but the Japanese literary world might not be."
Hojou-san's massive success will no doubt start a trend—a terrifying, bone-chilling trend.
Writers who devote themselves to observing society and exploring meaningful themes will be left to freeze in that cold wind.
While others will rush to follow Hojou's example—using flashy art and dazzling marketing to trick readers into opening their wallets.
Content? Meaning? Story? Who cares—so long as it sells!
These people won't care if their work benefits society.
All they'll think about is whether their royalties can gain another zero.
My friends, I'm deeply worried!
As writers—people entrusted by society and culture to inspire and enlighten—if even we get infected by this shallow, flashy trend… what hope does our country, our culture, or our future have?
While I was writing this article, my seventeen-year-old granddaughter walked up to my desk.
I thought she was going to tell me not to publish it.
After all, Hojou-sensei is at the height of his popularity right now, with an army of fans online ready to attack anyone who criticizes him.
But instead, my sweet, obedient granddaughter looked me dead in the eye and said,
"Who gave you the right to badmouth Hojou-sensei!? Do you even know how hard he works and how much he loves his fans?
Those posters and comics—he drew them himself! He didn't have to, but he still did, even while studying full-time! You don't understand him at all!"
I had prepared myself for backlash after publishing the article—but I didn't expect to be attacked before I even finished writing it, and by my own family no less!
And the worst part? My granddaughter actually threatened me on Hojou-sensei's behalf!
She said, "Don't think just because he's handsome he's easy to mess with! He's a two-time national kendo champion—one swing and your head's gone!"
My granddaughter—the same gentle girl who used to bring me tea late at night and whisper for me to rest my eyes… When did she turn into this?
I had foreseen the fall of Japanese literature under Hojou-sensei's influence, but I never imagined my own household would collapse first.
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That was where the article ended.
Behind those melodramatic, tear-stained words, Hikigaya could almost picture the old man's bitter face.
"Hahahahahahahaha—!"
Hikigaya burst into laughter.
He finally understood why this old geezer was a regular columnist for the Sankei Daily.
His writing was sharp and skillful—even if the content was ridiculous.
The piece was hateful, sure, but damn, it was a good read.
Even Hikigaya, who felt the urge to throttle the author after finishing it, couldn't help but admit it was entertaining.
Still, laughter aside, Hikigaya instantly recognized just how venomous the article truly was.
There was no denying the sales of the Director's new novel—it was a record-breaking hit, with an initial print run of over a million copies.
But this so-called "literary critique," titled The Calamity of Japanese Literature, written by one Matsumoto Motohiro, credited all of Hojou's success to cheap marketing tricks.
Worse yet, it predicted that his future works would sell even better.
That part was especially nasty.
Because now, no matter how well the next book performed, people would always whisper that it was because of flashy advertising—not genuine quality.
A cunning move from a man working for a tabloid dressed up as a newspaper. Truly, the heart of a snake.
Hikigaya wasn't particularly worried about the book's sales being affected.
He knew all too well—as someone who spent most of his allowance on video games—that even garbage can sell if it gets enough buzz.
With a label like "The book that destroyed modern literature", curious people would rush to buy it.
What did worry him, though, was how this might affect the Director's shot at winning the Japan Mystery Writers Award.
Genius can't stay hidden forever.
Even if he looked like a dead fish most of the time, lying flat in the clubroom after training, Hikigaya Hachiman's brilliance had still been recognized.
"The ones with dead-fish eyes are always dangerous," his strategist had once said—before recruiting him into the Rampaging Angels' think tank.
He wasn't high-ranked enough to take part in big publicity battles like this one, but he knew all about how much effort the team had poured into helping the Director with his latest novel, The Dream and Death of Writer K.
The plan was to stir up public attention and pressure the judges into recognizing its brilliance.
But now, with Matsumoto's poison pen piece making the rounds, even their surest bet was starting to look shaky.
If people could say "cheap tricks sell books," they could just as easily say "cheap tricks win awards."
And just like that, one single article could twist public perception completely.
At this point, even if they chopped off the head of Kurokawa's dog and left it on the judges' pillow, the man might still hesitate to give them the prize.
Hikigaya didn't even blame Sankei Daily for publishing the article.
The traffic it brought in would make any editor drool. Readers loved these highbrow literary feuds.
He could already imagine it: today's Sankei Daily flying off the shelves faster than ever.
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